


touch-starved

by captaincastello



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Crack, Fluff and Crack, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Slash, Sexual Tension, Yoga, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 05:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15575241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captaincastello/pseuds/captaincastello
Summary: Connor’s HK800 purchases a pair of yoga tights in his name.





	touch-starved

**Author's Note:**

> i'm weak for aus, and the dbh reverse au has quite a magnetic pull that can't be denied... everyone's got their own characterizations of the reverse Connor and Hank, and here's mine and it's sorta just crack-y
> 
> anyways, i hope you enjoy your stay here

“Package for you, Detective Anderson.”

Two mundane carton boxes, one big and one small, fall without much of an impact on his desk from the intern’s cold lifeless hands. One look at the logos plastered on their sandy brown surfaces and Connor instantly knows they’re from the online shop he frequents whenever his bank account decides it’s time for an early Christmas. But something’s not right-- he’s quite sure that he hasn’t made another purchase since his frenzied splurge when the Kamski Electric Dildo Collection came out on sale a more than a month ago (five for the price of three!! How can he say no?).

So it really almost throws him in a loop when it’s the plastic DILF sitting in the opposite cubicle that takes the tab from the intern to confirm the safe arrival of the packages.

“Thank you,” Hank says without any real tinge of gratefulness in his voice as the intern scornfully leaves to deliver his next arduous task of making coffee with his cold lifeless hands.

“What’s this?” Connor drops his usually screechy voice to a semi-screechy and semi-annoyed whisper as Hank hovers over him and the suspicious packages. “Did you make an online purchase using my account? You should know I’m saving money for… more important things. Since when were theft and shopping part of your programming? Being a free android doesn’t mean you could just—”

“Ease up, detective,” Hank says, glassy eyes and vocal timbre dripping with amusement where Connor begrudgingly thinks there should be remorse instead. “My primary directive is still to assist you. Rest assured, this miniscule monetary loss will lead to your physical and mental enrichment. I searched for the most durable yet economical items to purchase so as not to greatly affect your financial reserves dedicated to satisfy your particular interests.”

“You’re still not answering my first question, and as a detective, I’m naturally curious, so,” Connor says as he fetches a small cutter from the side of his desk. In one smooth motion he slices through the flimsy tape, unleashing Pandora’s box.

A modest slab of folded black cloth wrapped in plastic. In the other, a rolled up bright green mat. Very anticlimactic, and yet he breathes a sigh of relief because they’re not anything weird or incriminating.

“Compression tights with full-flex spandex,” Hank says with a hand gesturing to the smaller box, most probably from the look Connor gives him. “You always neglect my nutritional advice, so I decided that if I cannot effectively persuade you on what to consume, I could help you release.”

“… _What_?” Connor’s voice comes out as a pained cry.

“You’re doing yoga after work tonight.”

 

 

 

“Do I even have any say in the matter?”

“There’s a three-day allowance in which we can still exchange each item for a more favorable color,” Hank says matter-of-factly. “Would you have preferred the color blue for the tights, instead?”

“You know that’s not what I meant, and I would have preferred _nothing_ ,” Connor replies bitterly as he slouches in a dark corner of his room, facing away from his partner.

“Then I should tell you that exercising in _nothing_ is much less appealing than you might think,” Hank replies as he makes his way over, and Connor can almost hear the smirk in his voice. “Let’s get started, detective.”

Connor scooches closer to the wall and throws Hank a dark look over his shoulder. “Make me.”

Hank’s LED blinks yellow. “Do you want me to undress you?”

If Connor had been sipping beer, he’d choke on it.

“Is your number one purpose to twist my words into something else and annoy me? Wait, no, don’t answer that,” Connor stammers, his voice rising a couple of octaves, some strong emotion making him red in the face. It doesn’t register as anger in Hank’s data analysis, but it’s something that’s definitely spiking up Connor’s energy and heat levels.

Muttering curses under his breath while complaining how Hank just followed him inside his own house after technically stealing from him, Connor picks himself up from the floor and drags himself to his dresser to look for a tank top to replace his three-day-old sweater with.

“Are you just going to watch me?” He asks a second later, an eyebrow raised as he starts pulling off his garments.

“Only to make sure you don’t escape out of the window to find the nearest bar.”

“Your lack of trust wounds me,” Connor says as he throws his sweater on his unkempt bed. Even in the dim light of his room, he looks pale as a ghost.

Hank’s LED light blinks yellow before he turns around and exits through the open door. Outside in the living room, in the space he had just cleaned and cleared up for their quote-end-quote fitness and wellness training, Hank unrolls the yoga mat onto the floor.

Not a minute later he hears a groan from Connor’s room, voice followed immediately by soft bare-footed stomping leading to where he is. Now sulking openly in the light of the living room, Connor’s face is lit up in hues of red and pink spreading all the way to his ears and sprinkled a bit on the tops of his shoulders.

“Weren’t kidding when they named them ‘tights’…” he mumbles as he pinches the tightly-fitting cloth and pulls it away from his behind—the fabric stretches and snaps back with a gracious slap that slightly jiggles Connor’s ass. With a belated thought, he adds flatly, “… that would’ve hurt if I did that in front.”

“These tights are of highly flexible material,” Hank says, eyes still where Connor’s hand was a second ago. “I took the liberty of taking a mental analysis of your measurements to properly choose the most comfortable and efficient pair of lower garments. Any inferior fabric would have been both a waste and an inconvenience.”

Despite himself, Connor lets out a crisp, dry laugh. “Is that your way of saying you technically checked me out?”

“I always check your vitals, detective,” Hank says after a heartbeat. “It is imperative to my mission.”

“You’re no fun, android,” Connor says with a sigh. He already knew, but he had to try. “At least make this bearable and worth my money.”

“As I’ve said, detective, my intentions are in your best interests.” Hank responds. “So, if you’re ready, let us begin. It would be ill-advised to immediately engage in physical exercise without going through proper—“

“Yeah, warm-ups,” Connor says, hands on his hips, already rotating his neck. “Need I remind you I spent years training in the academy, I’m familiar with standard protocol.”

“I already know all there is to know about you, detective. I’ve got your file memorized,” Hank says.

“Oh yeah? So there’s nothing I can keep from you, huh?” Connor replies as he stretches his arms over his head. His tank top rises a bit to reveal a slight packet of adult flab peeking out from the waistband of his shorts, and a tiny crop of dark brown hair that almost melts into the black of the fabric, only visible if one had extra-sensitive vision.

“If it’s on record, yes,” Hank responds, eyes coming back up from where they shouldn’t have been.

Feet firmly planted to the ground, Connor bends down and touches the mat with his fingers. His top rolls down along with him, revealing more skin and hidden markings; tiny scattered moles dotting his stomach and back like burnt stars, stretch marks crawling like leafless branches around his hips, scars healed over time, each holding a story that Hank has long since filed into memory.

“Still got it,” Connor says victoriously despite the grunt escaping his throat.

“There’s a bit of unnecessary tension building up in your thigh, detective,” Hank says as he kneels down beside Connor and places a hand on his femur. “You need to get back up slowly.”

“A-as if I didn’t know that,” Connor stammers. When he gets back up, it’s as if half the blood in his body went to his head and painted his face crimson. A few more counts and tiny grunts later, all joints are finally reawakened for physical activity.

“No sweat,” Connor smirks despite the couple of beads pouring down his forehead.

“Very good, detective,” Hank says without failing not to sound like a bland unfeeling butler of some rich spoiled kid who needed constant affirmation. “Now let’s test your flexibility. I need you to get down on the mat and be on all fours for me.”

If Connor had been sipping his second bottle of beer, he’d choke on it. Despite the regulated temperature within the room, his biological stats sure are rising, Hank notes. Connor’s already sweating more than he’s ever had within two hours doing field work at the peak of summer, and all they’ve done so far is a few basic stretches.

“Is something wrong, detective?” Hank finally asks when three seconds have passed without a complaint or an angry retort from his human. Still, nothing. “Connor?”

Hearing his name seems to finally break him out of it, although it doesn’t make him less flustered. “W-wh—“

“I’d like to try out this yoga pose,” Hank says, a moving hologram image flashing on his palm. “It’s called the Cat-Cow pose. It’s described to be, and I quote, ‘helpful in strengthening the abdominal organs, in stimulating blood and lymphatic flow to mobilize the joints. Coordinating this movement with proper breathing relieves stress and helps calm the mind’, end quote.”

“Why didn’t you just show me that?” Connor says a bit shrilly and he instantly regrets the voice he was born with.

“I thought I described it rather clearly.”

“Or too clearly,” comes the almost muted reply, but Connor does as he’s told anyways. He shakes off the annoying stomach-twisting feelings and places himself in position, palms and knees on the mat. It suddenly feels weird because he’s too aware of his ass in the air. _Damn stretchy body-fitting fabric_.

“Posture, Connor,” Hank says gently as he kneels down beside him. “There’s too much tension around your shoulders.”

Warmth spreads from where Hank’s fingers land on Connor’s skin, painting more pink and red around his shoulders. A large hand travels back and cups the back of his thigh; long fingertips reaching just right where he’s a bit extra sensitive, making him almost jump. Connor isn’t exactly a religious man, but almost instantly he offers a silent prayer to the gods that nothing slips out his throat because he sure as hell knows there’s an embarrassing yelp resting at the base of it.

He’s well aware that his job has been cockblocking him for quite some time, but has he ever been so touch-starved to this degree? That spot behind his thigh isn’t even new territory; he’s been with sexual partners before who have abused his sensitivity in foreplay, but that was always within the context of a consensual decision to engage in actual sexual activity, and yet this—as Hank put it, is simply a fitness and wellness training, and of course nothing more— yet this is already giving him a fever he didn’t expect, much less expect he probably _wants_.

“Spread your legs a bit further,” Hank’s voice—had it always been this sultry; this thick and rich with sickly sweet nectar?—sounds close and yet simultaneously distant in Connor’s semi-drunken haze. A steady palm and cool fingers gently push his other leg further from the other, and he’s only now aware that his ass seems to have pushed back as well, his body subconsciously leaning into the stable pressure of Hank’s touch.

“Good, now try to synchronize your breathing with—your heart rate’s way up, Connor,” Hank says, hands retreating to his sides, and Connor renews the idea of how it feels like to hate the cold. “Yoga is supposed to help you relax even as you exert effort to perform. Is something bothering you?”

If Connor had been sipping his third bottle of beer, he’d choke on it, and maybe some would go up his nose. Either way, there’s no way he has any decent answer to Hank’s question.

“You’re the one who checks my vitals—figure it out yourself,” he says, his voice unnecessarily higher, and he almost regrets why he has to deflect from his embarrassment like that because Hank was built to be better than the average detective, and it doesn’t take much of a genius to notice all the telltale signs of pent-up sexual frustration bubbling to surface level.

Unbelievably, Connor has just become this entertainment news headline: Sex-deprived Twink Cop Almost Loses His Mind Over Slight Inner-Thigh Touch _._ He can already see the article forming in his mind: _In-depth investigation leads police to believe that Connor Anderson’s internet history and current personal lifestyle could provide insight into the embarrassing occurrence he had to endure in his living room with an unfairly handsome android specifically made to be his professional work partner…_

Up to this day, Connor swears that both his boss Amanda and Dr. Chloe Kamski had conspired against him on the sly, and decided on Hank’s anatomical design over a few rounds of good whiskey and an indoor male-stripper exhibit. Amanda had used the words “ _tactical move_ ” when he and the HK800 unit were introduced in her office—and by that, Connor understood that she must have meant they had taken his Pornhub subscription and Grindr profile into account during the design and manufacturing process to make sure that they’d come up with, well, this sinful walking wet dream he now calls Hank.

It’s not like they weren’t successful—having Hank around did sort of improve Connor’s daily attendance and made him docile and agreeable enough to finish cases at a quicker pace, and to reduce the frequency of his bar visits. Although all that is also mostly because Hank would follow him home to keep him preoccupied, and pry him off his bed early in the morning. In a few days he learned to leave the door unlocked for Hank; not too long after even his brown-eyed pug Biscuit came to regard Hank as her other owner; in weeks he started keeping thirium packets in storage; in a couple of months, he has designated one drawer in his closet for Hank’s clothes that were primarily used as undercover disguises, but looked too good on him for Connor to throw out.

Overall, it feels like he just became the owner of another pet. Except it’s a pet that most nights climbs into his dreams and gets his boxers and sheets all stained in the morning.

Taking care of his own needs isn’t a real problem because Hank knows not to disturb him when he thinks he’s already asleep. Even before Hank, Connor has long since learned to live by the remedy of his own hands, or by the amazing power of his toy dongs, and yet actually feeling another being anywhere near the seat of his pleasure—for the first time in a while, only Hank has ever gotten close. Hank’s hand on his shoulder puts warmth in his cheeks; Hank’s fingers going around his thigh lights a fire in the pit of his stomach, and right now Connor is quite certain he’s ablaze.

“… I’m leaning onto the idea that you’re distracted, Connor,” Hank says after what feels like a long time, but Connor isn’t even vaguely aware that Hank’s talking again until he feels a warm sting in the shape of a hand right on his left butt cheek.

It takes a second for all his blood to rush to his face, and another half for his brain to fully register what just happened and why Hank’s hand is still in midair, seemingly preparing to land a second hit, and Connor has never turned his head so fast he might’ve given himself whiplash—“Did you just _slap_ me?”

He must’ve let out a tiny scream because Biscuit suddenly pokes her head out from the sofa cushions, awaken from her nap.

Hank doesn’t answer; the expression on his face is unlike anything Connor has ever seen before, one he can’t quite name either. With the entire android deviancy blowing up in town, he’s always discovering new things about Hank, getting to know him as Hank also explores his own person, his own likes and dislikes, peeling off every layer of plastic to get closer to this being who’s clearly more than machine. Hank’s hand slowly falls back to his side, but the face he’s making right now—it’s the closest to human Connor has ever seen him.

It also stirs something else deep inside of him that overrides his initial angry response from getting his ass slapped—and this _something_ is one that he has a name for, a hot puddle of emotion he’s quite familiar with that also gives way to another bigger emotion that’s staring to eat at him even more than it has been for weeks now—actual fear, but it’s the kind accompanied with heavy emotional baggage from previous experiences; fear that he’s getting too invested in this, fear that this _something_ might be more than he can handle because it feels too heavy in his chest.

Suddenly, Hank’s blue eyes are on him, startling him. He averts his eyes even though he knows it’s absurd to think that Hank might just be able to read his internal turmoil and confusion if their eyes met. Even in his tank top and black tights, he felt embarrassingly bare, vulnerable under Hank’s steady gaze.

Are his own reactions weird? Is his body emitting too much hormones that his body is a pulsing beacon of bright red in Hank’s infrared thermography processor?

“Connor,” Hank says his name, breathing new life and meaning to this odd scramble of letters, in a voice that seems to have gone a few octaves lower. Connor chances a glance at his face; Hank seems to have recovered partly, yet there is still something in his eyes and in the way his mouth just moved that’s making Connor simultaneously embarrassed and nervous with anticipation.

Hank’s eyes swim uneasily to the left, escaping Connor’s for just a second, before he continues. “This is an odd question to ask, but… did you like that?”

Now it’s Connor’s turn to blank out and not answer— did he _what_ the _what_ now? Hank’s words hang in the air between them and they’re gaining weight with each second that passes by that the question feels like an entire presence in the room with them, flooding the space with awkward. Who’s he even kidding— with the way Hank placed emphasis on the word ‘ _like’_ , it’s hard to miss the obvious implication there. And yet why did he even ask that?

“Wha—I—what are you even—I don’t…? What the hell…?” His last three words are the only things close to coherent he can muster because the amount of blood rushing to his head right now is tickling him stupid and confused.

“The sound you just made when I slapped your ass…” Hank says in almost a whisper, in a voice Connor likes to imagine is reserved for the bedroom, except sexy imagination cannot get him safely away from here too fast because apparently, he just let slip a sound that _he_ must only reserve for the bedroom and he wasn’t even aware of it when he did.

Without another word, he stands up, and heads for his room.

“C-Connor?” Hank calls for him, but he keeps his legs moving, head facing front.

“You’re right something is bothering me I can’t do this right now I’m turning in for the night goodbye.”

He just went from strangely incoherent to a monotonous librarian firing a hundred words a minute. No force in this world will ever pull him back into that conversation right now. Maybe he’ll deal with this in the morning, when it’s a new day and a fresh start, and hopefully they’ll be assigned a new case to distract them from the case of the testosterone party raging in Connor’s pants (tights).

A B&E resulting in multiple homicide and theft? An APB issued for a stolen vehicle by a criminal facing charges of DUI and reckless driving leading to a nationwide manhunt? Discovery of a new drug cartel targeting androids? He can deal. But all the questions swimming in Hank’s eyes, waiting to drop from those tantalizing pair of lips? He just can’t.

Just not right now, maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a filthier idea in my head, but after working on it for almost a couple of weeks in between my day job and real life, the smutty train of thought just regretfully disappeared from my cold lifeless hands T__T now we're left smut-deprived, like this AU's Connor is
> 
> hopefully i could write actual porn someday and give these bois a good time together T__T


End file.
